Storyteller
by Caillean
Summary: COMPLETE: What if Jareth wasn't as beautiful as we all thought.......?


Storyteller

By Caillean Greywolf

ldycaillean@hotmail.com

So you're a storyteller. What does that mean to you?

As a storyteller, you weave a spell over those who listen. You are the enchantress, the sorcerer, the wizard.  

You enchant and cajole, you make them laugh and cry.

You entertain. You create.

You entrap. You destroy.

You pick up the pieces and build again, sculpting a new dream, a new story out of the soft clay of your imagination. Sometimes it is hailed as a masterpiece, and sometimes it crumbles into dust before it is ever unveiled.

And sometimes, it takes on a life of its own.

Sometimes, it was alive before you.

These are the times when you put pen to paper, a hand other than your own moves it. The times when your computer monitor flashes words across the screen you didn't type. The times you wake up at two in the morning because someone was whispering in your ear a delicious secret you simply must share.

You are never alone then. 

Call them voices, spirits, your muse. Call them anything you wish. These waking dreams, these fantastical visions are what make you a writer. 

Call it your gift; or call it your curse.  

For me: a curse. For you: a dream.

But know it for what it is.

The names that come from nowhere, the voices that speak to you when you're trying to eat your dinner or watch the game. These are the precious moments we take for granted. 

Where did that character's name come from? Certainly, you didn't just make it up - did you?

But, you think, of course I didn't make it up. I don't know where it came from, it was just…well…. there.

And those eyes. The ones that aren't your own, but stare at you from your mirror. Where did they come from?

Certainly not Neverland.

And the hand that forces yours to write. This isn't a demon, surely. But is it an angel? 

What possesses you and makes your imagination fly?

Who is that behind you, standing over your shoulder and reminding you when you make a mistake? And the other spirit, holding your hand as you continue on and letting you know it will turn out okay in the end. 

Who are they?

What are they?

Be careful, my friends, what you wish for… well, you know the old adage.

The voice that wakes you up in the wee hours of the morning… have you ever asked him to just let you sleep?  To wait to tell you until the morning?

Of course not.

You know why.  You feel it is a privilege for him to talk to you, to share such a wonderful secret. You would never dream to tell him to go away, he might never come back.

Believe me, it doesn't matter.

He _always_ comes back. 

You might feel that storytelling is a gift. To me – it's merely a way of life and a curse I cannot shake. It's how I earn my bread. It's how I warm myself in the cold winter.

It's how I continue on.

I tried to stop once. I tried to tell him to just go away, leave me alone to enjoy a normal life. To let me live in peace, without his constant whispers.

Do you know, he laughed?

He told me I should be proud to be visited by a King. Delighted to merely know his name. I should cower before him, not push him away.

I tried, believe me - I tried.

But he was insistent. He needed a storyteller, a writer to inform the world of his greatness. Every time I tried to run away, he followed. He wouldn't let me sleep; he invaded my dreams.

The chains that bind me are not made of iron, but they are stronger than any metal. He holds me with my own sanity, threatening to take it all away if I disobey. He will drive me to the pits of despair if I do not follow his every whim. He is the devil, I tell you, and if a hell exists I expect to find him there when I die.

No matter how hard I fought back, he was still there. He has absolute power over me. He said that I intrigued him; my thoughts and my dreams were so vivid. He said I had a way with words.

I wish I didn't.

He says that I know him like no other.

I don't understand why.

And you know what else? He says that he owns me, and my soul. He believes in himself that much. He is dangerous, and when I do not please him, he invades my dreams once more.

It's not pretty.

He's not pretty. I don't care what you think. His smile holds no laughter, no kindness. 

He can be cruel – and he is.

I have seen your stories. You embrace him with laughter, you glorify him.

He loves that.

I can only warn you:  be careful. Do not give him too much consequence. Do not make him the hero.

Do not call attention to yourself. He might decide to start a storyteller collection.

Know him for who he is. Know him for what he has done. Believe nothing you read or hear. If he takes your hand and forces it to write, stop him. If the computer starts to type on its own, turn it off. Rip the plug out of the wall, actually.

And if he visits you in your dreams…

Pray.

But you will not believe me. You will continue to love him, worship him as a god. 

When at best, he's a fallen angel.

I must continue to glorify him, to esteem him in your eyes. That is his job for me. Perhaps someday he will release me. Perhaps I will just die from the exhaustion of writing.

Perhaps you will not heed my warning. Perhaps someday I will meet you here, in my cell of non-existence where the Goblin King holds my soul.

Perhaps you will be wise, or not.

But you will continue to write, of that I am certain.

After all…

It's only a story.


End file.
